


Always Something There To Remind Me

by Exces_KaboomBOOM



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dark Comedy, Martin and Annabelle bonding, Monster!Martin, Spiders, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, all the powers want some Martin's juices, poetic non-sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 20:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20607134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exces_KaboomBOOM/pseuds/Exces_KaboomBOOM
Summary: "I thought— I just assumed," Martin stutters, "that I was already claimed? Sort of? By the Lonely.""Don't you mean the Beholding?" Annabelle plays along, enjoying watching him go around in circles."You've been touched by the Web as well," she offers. "An Avatar wouldn't play for another team.""Are you telling me—" Martin's voice rises as much as his blushed cheeks darken "that I— swing both ways with Entities' powers?""All the ways, if you ask me." Martin looks scandalized. "It's pretty impressive, you know.""But what does that mean? In the end?""That's you're human enough to be sensitive to multiple powers at play, and too passionate to stop them from using you. Might as well use them in return, right?"TW: heavy suicidal thoughts and attempts, half beginning of the story. And spiders. LOTS. OF. SPIDERS.





	Always Something There To Remind Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cuttooth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/gifts).

> There was a time where I was known for only writing angst, then I got called out for it so I stopped, because, yeah, life is sad enough as it is, but now I’m like… TMA is sad af so it’s very in canon to go back to my sources, you know? Anyway, I love all TMA characters, but I’m also tired of character developpement only happening within a shipping setting (I’m talking about myself again) so I wanted to do some soul-searching for S4!Martin with (almost) no man involved in his adventures. And also, I’m dying for him to meet Annabelle so… There’s that. I hope you’ll enjoy that story! Don’t hesitate to leave a comment or message me on tumblr at trans-glorious-tiny-god!  
Proof-read by the amazing and kind [cuttooth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth)!!

_Please, leave my dreams alone_

There is something inherently peaceful in the act of giving up. A weight is lifted off your chest, you can feel a calm before (and after?) the storm. Your own survival instinct can only keep you alive so long. All timey efforts eventually die down. Then, accepting that everything is over comes as a relief, because the fight is finally ending. You tend to forget what you’re fighting for when you fight for too long, and being able to rest comes as the only fathomable victory.

The warrior’s final rest is their sweetest. Martin is at the end of his rope, and he’s now willing to stop trying. He’s losing his grip on reason, hope, and love. He’s freeing himself from responsibility. It’s his time to give up, and die. 

The realization comes to him on an early morning — his poetic soul would have preferred a late night suicide, but the timing doesn’t matter anymore. He is going through the usual motions — waking up, drinking his tea, forgetting to eat, dressing up in the dark, leaving for the Institute, giving up his seat in the subway, looking at the ground so as to not meet any eyes. He’s about to enter the building when _it_ snaps (what is _it?_ He can’t name it yet). He raises his eyes, full of tears, to the door, a sickening mixture of anger and abandonment tangled in his belly. He still tries to cross the threshold, forcing himself to focus on the idea of hearing Jon’s voice, or finding new answers, or Peter’s careful smile. But his body’s given up before his mind, so it needs some time to catch up with the plan. 

Unable to move, or choose, or decide, Martin stands on the spot for a couple of minutes or an infinite year. The world’s alive around him, but he can’t feel himself connected to it anymore. Something _broke_ (himself, perhaps) and there’s no going back. 

Once he accepts his fate, his movements come back to him naturally. He turns his back to the Institute, and starts walking again. 

His steps are hurried at first, impatient to end it all, to find the perfect spot to fall asleep under a merciful sky where hang the Dark’s dead gods. Martin doesn’t consciously know where he’s heading, or where he wants to meet his maker; but his legs know, and his heart will tell him. He chooses to trust them and simply focuses on… Not being. 

The city streets, long and full, start to fade into rarer buildings and even less faces. The overwhelming, heavy smell of the monster city calms down, and is replaced by a purer air. Martin sneezes a few times, not used anymore to the countryside’s raw flora. His feet start to bleed in his shoes, first from open blisters, then from cracked skin, giving a squishy noise to his steps. The pain makes him weep at times, but his body won’t stop its course. He’s putting most of his weight on a large stick he picked up. He’s breathing in aching, short breaths, both from exhaustion and his binder glued to his skin with sweat. He needs water and food. 

He keeps on walking.

At some point, he trips and falls from exhaustion, and passes out. It is in the early hours of the night; he wakes up to a new sun blanketing him, and chirping birds breaking nature’s quiet slumber. He gets to his knees, crying from pain, yet he still manages to stand up and starts walking again. His feet’s wounds, freshly dried, reopen like summer flowers under warm attention. His body’s screaming, but not to stop, it screams _murder_ and _rage_ and _desolation_. It’s his final fight and he will not lose it. Martin’s throat is screaming too, because his determination doesn’t numb any of his pain, but yelling stretches out his bruised lungs and gives him a new wave of adrenaline to hang on to. 

The smell of salt comes to him in rapid waves. He suspects the sea before he sees it. The coldness climbs quickly at his limbs, the air becoming sharper. He’s trying his best to fight back just a little longer, just enough to make it; he thinks that this is it, this is where he’ll forever rest. Asleep on a beach, food for the birds, or swallowed by the ocean itself, filling his body with water until air is nothing but a dream he once had. He feels relieved because he can finally taste the end of it all. He is almost there. Oh, death is a prize he never knew could be so sweet! 

He has no sense of where he is, or who the people are that look at him with fear, or why this is where his body wanted to abandon hope. Maybe it was written, by an Entity or another, or his free will is a concept controlled by the forces of Nature itself. He can barely think straight, and it is a relief as well. He doesn’t remember his own name. He is becoming less of a man by the second. 

The sand gives him a last obstacle to struggle against. His strength is almost not enough to keep on walking, but what other choice does he have? He falls down on his face and starts crawling. Broken shells stick to his skin, tiny cuts creating bigger ones, sand rubbing pain into pain, streaking his face with stripes of blood. 

His fingertips open as well. He feels warm and cold, in complete pain and in complete acceptance. 

It takes him a long time to understand when his body stops moving. Face down in the sand, breathing through his mouth to taste dirt and despair, he doesn’t think. He is done. He is done for, it is time for him to — 

“Welcome home,” a voice calls to him. 

He tries his hardest to stay down and give up on living. Please believe him, he really did try. 

When his eyes open, it is hard to focus or translate into thoughts what he’s seeing. A monstrous, rotting building rises up behind the figure calling his name. It says “chips” by the open metal doors. Someone keeps calling him, but he only understands them when long fingers curl around his bloody cheek. 

“Martin, you’re finally _home,_” the voice says again. 

He sees a spider and thinks for a second that it smiles at him. And by the instinct of kindness written in his bones, he smiles back. He likes spiders. 

He just didn’t know how much they liked him back. 

*

Martin returns to consciousness when trickles of water fall over his dry, hurt lips. The drizzle runs all over his face, and it tastes divine to his parched mouth and skin. How long has he been out? He doesn’t recall anything… Nor does he have the strength to open his eyes and investigate it himself.  
He rapidly falls back asleep to the sound of waves crashing against a cliff edge, trying his hardest to remember the last time he ever saw the sea. Has he ever even seen it? 

*

No Entity can be benevolent or kind; they are Fears in their purest form, after all. They know no empathy. Their Avatars, on the other hand, aren’t so monolithic; born from humans into monsters, their humanity is the key to their metamorphosis and to their own end. 

An awful lot of what's considered evil is human made. They created Fears, and the Fears gave back their fullest; but the Slaughter didn't create wars. The Beholding didn't create cults — the Web didn't make up witches. 

Here's where Peter is very right, much as it pains Annabelle to admit it. Entities without humans have no meaning. The Extinction is a direct threat to them all — or at least, most of them, and that should count for something. 

Yet, now is not the time to do something about it. Martin is feverish, his hair dripping with sweat. Annabelle has tended to his more severe wounds rather crudely, which will leave scars for sure. It’s good, in a way; physical memory is more efficient. It won’t just leave you. Martin needs to remember those moments with sharp accuracy, or he won’t make it past the end of the world. Annabelle changes the wet cloth on his forehead, and goes to make something to eat — it’s morning, she thinks. She lost track of time aeons ago, so she learned to read the sky and its colors to grasp the passing of hours.

The pink light of sunrise outlines a spider busy making a cobweb by the window. It feels like watching a dedicated artist at work; the spider goes in circles, slowly going back to the center of its web. Two legs sticking the thread to the structure, two legs feeling for the empty spaces and the path to follow, two legs to stand on and two legs holding the freshly made thread. 

This web is source of life and death, and it’s a beautiful creation of nature. The spider’s every movement has been thought to an unrivalled perfection. Where the circular motions and the repeated pattern could remind one of the Spiral’s aesthetic, the comparison ends at that. The meticulous execution of the cobweb craftsmanship doesn’t seem able to ever be boring. Each and every web is unique, and contains an entire world in itself. Its beauty lies in its cleverness and its ephemeral state. It holds strong but doesn’t last; a lot of its survival is up to luck and to the world around it. 

The Web is about manipulation, scheming, the spiders and their symbolism; it is also about knowing when to interfere or when to let it run wild. It is observation and deduction, intuition and people knowledge; it’s hiding, lying by omission, pretending anything you need to put your plan into action — to finally reach the center of the Mother’s paradigm. 

Catching the prey is for sustenance, but that’s no endgame. The Web is about dreams you work to make into realities. Imagine now all the cobwebs you ever saw; the ones being made, the ones holding cadavers, and the ones left behind as remains of moment of life and death. These are all ideas and plans that were, are and will be. 

The world is nested in a web so large and comfy, it can never see its extent nor its edges. A truly beautiful, gargantuan masterpiece of deception and illusions. 

Artists are often playing in the Web’s realm, they make good agents for its cause and often share its vision of beauty (and of ugliness, playing the fine line between perception, reality and desire). 

Annabelle’s head is filled with cobwebs. That’s a look charged with statement. It’s not _painful._ It's rather… Noisy. Hundreds of spiders’ legs crawling and crafting webs are sometimes a lot to bear. She often misses sleep because nothing ever feel still to her. Movement is life; she can only survive if she’s active. The Web and the End don’t make good friends. 

The spiders don’t talk to her, yet she knows what they see and what they feel. It is like having constant information — or _intuition_ — about her surroundings. She’s got used to it. Everything feels alive and swarming, under her eyes, her skin and her skull, and also in the beating earth, the crashing waves, the infinite skies. Cities feels like oceans, villages like woods under heavy rains. Silence is never quiet; it reminds her of home, sometimes. 

Nostalgia is a rare commodity that Annabelle greedily keeps close to herself. (Is her heart still inside her chest or has it been changed into cobwebs too?)

Martin is still not waking up. She didn’t really prepare for the reality that he could have died in the process of coming to her. That possibility would be… Unfortunate. The Archivist would never trust her, for one. The cleaning-up would be a complete bother and she absolutely despises wasting potential. But it is a variable that she may have overlooked, more focused on the bigger picture of Martin's future than him, in the present, a Lonely's pet sad and washed out. 

The sun is now up enough to brush its first golden strokes over the sea laying into the horizon. Maybe a stroll by the beach will help her recompose herself some more. 

Her walk is more like that of a broken doll than a human. It is one of the reasons she prefers to walk amongst shadows. The sun is very harsh on her paper thin skin; the spiders inside her tend to recoil its warmth. But now the wind is cold enough to appease their discomfort, and its noise overpowers their own tiny cacophony in her ears. Annabelle would have made a beautiful sea creature. Lands are often boring, and cities saddening. The calm and surreal horror of the waters could have been a comfort. It still is, perhaps, because she will never be part of that world and can long for it when she is unhappy. 

She doesn’t experience happiness in a literal way. Ah, even that idea is controversial; defining happiness' limits and what are the differences between a human’s and a monster’s. She can say that she doesn’t chase it, and the closest she feels to it may be _contentment._ It’s good enough. She is… satisfied. Today can still be a glorious day. 

The smell of blood comes entangled with the sea’s, metallic notes mixed with salt and seaweed. Annabelle’s eyes follow her nose and an emotion she cannot really pinpoint leaves her struck on the spot. 

Martin has awoken. He is rushing into the sea, battling against its forceful currants as to not be sent back onto the shore. Cuts have reopen on his skin, troubling the dark blue of the water with spikes of bright red. His head pops up in the messy picture from time to time, not unlike a strawberry red-haired doll left to drown, alone, shattered and unloved. Most would probably tear up at such an upsetting display. 

Annabelle didn’t plan on him actually being that unwell. A suicidal companion seems unfair to both of them. She thought he had some fight left in him; he was still so passionate to defend his dear Archivist, and chasing for clues about the Extinction or ways to incriminate his bosses. A bright (even if erased) man, worn out maybe, but still standing. 

He _had_ come here crawling down on his belly. Well, it will simply be an additional point to cover in the Web’s plan; put back Martin together, watch him grow back into himself stronger, self-centered and powerful. It would be a prideful conquest for them. More effort, for better results. 

After a time, she goes after him. He is almost passed out from exhaustion and from all the water filling his lungs, but he pushes his last willpower into fighting back as hard as possible. The gray sand drapes his face in bits of seashells and plastic bits of trash. He looks prettier when he is dishevelled, but he could use a little more rest. 

“Please,” he begs, unfocused, “please… I don’t want to keep on fighting.”

“Tough shit,” Annabelle laughs with warmth. “You’ve got the wrong God.”

“Why won’t — why can’t I die?” He implores. 

She carries him in her arms, unaware of how much he weighs. She can lift cars without breaking a sweat. But she takes some extra precautions to not hurt him more. 

“You’d be useless dead,” she offers. 

Martin doesn’t seem convinced. He covers his face to hide his crying. Clever boy. Weaknesses are a private matter. It’s a solitary pleasure never, ever to be shared. 

“You’re home,” Annabelle repeats, trying to push the meaning of it into him. 

He looks right in front of him. 

“You’re not alone anymore,” she tries instead. And she knows she has made her way through his thick skull when Martin finally meets her eyes, realizing — perhaps for the first time — that he is indeed held tightly, and seen and listened to. He looks at her in wonder and in horror. A perfect, sensible response. She smiles as kindly as she can remember to. Recognition runs over Martin’s features. He doesn’t say more, though. He observes her and their surroundings. He is _curious._ Now, a dead man wouldn’t indulge in that. 

They are going somewhere. There is land left to build on in Martin Blackwood's soul. 

*

Martin never felt before how much of an only child he was, not until he was cared for by Annabelle. He doesn’t know much about her past yet, or pretty much anything, but she looks after him with the distant care of a sibling; it’s familiar, and not overbearing. It feels strangely warm. Martin wonders why it leaves him so content. 

(Has he ever been taken care of before?) 

His body is in scrambles, and perhaps it was needed for him to hear another side of the story. He wouldn’t have given her the time of day if he had been in his right mind. 

“Did the Web bring me here?” The question leaves his lips before he fully realizes what he’s asking. “Did it— command me? _Puppet_ me into its bidding?”

“What kind of God do you think I’m serving?” Annabelle bites back, giving out a small smile to smooth his mood. It actually helps. “The Fears tap into existing sentiments and… _Tendencies._”

“But why did I end up here?” Martin looks around, just to assure himself once more that he’s never, ever seen this place before. 

“I was waiting for you, is all.”

“Then you admit it— “

“_I was waiting for you,_” Annabelle repeats more firmly. “Do you remember the words I greeted you with at your arrival?”

Martin looks down at his bandaged hands. 

“I’m not sure,” he says.

“Of what?”

“Of what, what I heard and— what I _wanted_to hear?” 

Annabelle comes back at his side, handing him two painkillers, a glass of water and a dark orange leather book. “You are home,” she reminds him, and yes; he remembers those words. Her voice, its nuances, like parts of a whole memory shattered apart some decades ago. 

Annabelle opens the book in Martin’s lap and he takes it, failing to remember how those tend to be very dangerous in his line of work. His healing fingertips stroke the words handwritten on the yellowing lined pages, tasting their textures and their stories. Along the texts are small polaroids, sketches of animals and, of course, dried spiders and silky bookmarks. 

“I don’t understand,” Martin whines, raising his face to her, his eyes meeting hers in a desperate attempt to find answers or any kind of sense, “what’s — what is happening to _me?_”

“You’re being claimed,” Annabelle replies, matter-of-factly. 

"I thought— I just assumed," Martin stutters, "that I was already claimed? Sort of? By the Lonely."

"Don't you mean the Beholding?" Annabelle plays along, enjoying watching him go around in circles. 

"I mean, at first, yes, with Elias telling us we would _all_ die if we tried to quit or leave the Institute, and most _did_ die anyway but— I can _vanish_ into the Lonely! Doesn't that mean I'm, some kind of avatar? Or follower?" 

"Lukas didn't tell you shit, did he?" It's more of an affirmation than a real enquiry. Peter Lukas would postpoint the World's End to tomorrow if it wasn't biting at his own ass and interests.

"Of course not! He's just— cryptic, and mysterious, and frankly, rather rude most of the time—" 

"I know the guy," Annabelle cuts him off, "I know how annoying he is." 

"I mean— Don't get me wrong, I don't _like_ him, but he isn't that bad at heart, mostly old-fashioned?" 

Annabelle smiles knowingly. The man’s got a _soft spot_ for another of his incompetent bosses. That whole Archive's drama is better than any reality show. 

"But my point is—" Martin forces himself to focus, "I _have_ Lonely powers, right?" 

"It seems to me you barely borrowed it. An Avatar is an extension of its Entity. Oneself and the Fear blend into each other like complementary colors. It sounds like you got close to those Powers, but they used you rather than the other way around." 

Martin is silenced by that observation. His sudden quietness makes Annabelle uneasy, left to the mercy of the spiders scratching against her skull for something to happen. 

"You've been touched by the Web as well," she offers. "An Avatar wouldn't play for another team."

"Are you telling me—" Martin's voice rises as much as his blushed cheeks darken "that I— _swing_ both ways with Entities' powers?" 

"All the ways, if you ask me." Martin looks scandalized. "It's pretty impressive, you know."

"But what does that mean? In the end?" 

"That's you're human enough to be sensitive to multiple powers at play, and too passionate to stop them from using you. Might as well use them in return, right?" 

Martin falls silent once more. He breaks it with a sad whisper, longing for something lost:

"I wanted a happy ending," he confesses, "I wanted to hope and to save the world."

"That's very noble, I'll give you that. But why not try to save yourself first, for once?" 

By the look Martin gives her, she can guess that one’s a stinger. Well, it's better out than in, right? Except for spiders, in her very peculiar case.

*

People can talk about how much Peter doesn’t explain much of anything, but it seems to be an Avatar’s common characteristic; Annabelle is honest and pretty frank, but she doesn’t give much more away. At some point, Martin remembers that a lot of the Fears’ followers don’t _actually_ know much about anything, but it’s still very frustrating. Surreal events and unexplainable horrors are tiring. Some clear, terrifying truths wouldn’t hurt once in a while. 

Annabelle gave him the leather book to read for the remainder of his convalescence, promising answers and clarifications. He doesn’t feel satisfied by anything he learned so far. _This is home_ because this is where the Web offered itself to Annabelle’s eyes. Fine, maybe, but Martin hasn’t shared her vision of the thread women working her own veins into the machine’s fabric; he never saw the sea as a beacon of freedom and later on, hell on earth. 

But once again, he doesn’t make most of the choices around him. 

_The Web wants him_ because he seems to be its type. Which, in honesty, hurts a little; Martin hasn’t been the kindest towards himself, but he at least thought he had his good heart to him and his honest good nature towards others. Well, playing dirty with feelings is actually a comfort zone of the Mother and her spiders, and he was living rent-free in their playground. Hurt pride aside, Martin does find this Deity a little more humane than the others so far. There is not a lot more humane things than committing treason for others’ sake or making up stories to save the greater good. He can be a _good_ Avatar. He wants to believe he can still be a good guy, even if (or perhaps, when), he’ll give himself entirely to one of the Powers. 

Annabelle doesn’t seem so bad herself. She plays a solo game and, yeah, she's killed people, or helped people kill themselves, but somewhat she will tell you about it in a way that you’ll find reasonable. She's not a good Samaritan or a benevolent death angel, but she’s also not so far away from humanity that she doesn’t know how to talk to your heart and see its working mechanisms, finding similarities between yours and hers.

She has totally won Martin over, hasn’t she? 

She _did_ save his life. But there is also the possibility that she helped him reach his breaking point, in hope of having at this exact point, thinking those exact words. 

When she returns to him, some days later, Martin's sitting on the beach, feet deep in the cold grey sand. She sits besides him, but her skin doesn’t touch anything, she’s almost completely covered in tight sportswear. Is her skin too sensitive for touching?

“I can’t really feel anything anymore,” She replies when asked about it. “And it feels probably weirder than if I was in actual pain.”

Martin nods along; the loss of sensation sounds a lot like losing your sense of reality. And when you can’t tell what’s real from what’s not, you start to plan your own suicide into the nearest body of water. 

“So… Did you make your decision?”

“About what?” Martin asks, genuinely surprised. He didn’t think of anything but healing and reading her words. He can almost recite it word for word — especially the parts about her observations of the Institute, from her quiet admiration for Gertrude Robinson as a true rival and her cruel pity towards the many messes Jon tends to get himself into. 

“Joining the Web.”

“I thought I was— claimed?”

“It’s still your choice to make,” she laughs. But it’s not a very funny statement. Is it silly? To her? How naive he still is, despite every terrible thing he came across, lived through and will survive in the future? 

“I like spiders,” he says, and it sounds as dumb as it can be. Annabelle stops laughing, but a gentle smiles still dances across her dark, dry lips. 

“They like you too,” she replies. 

“I know.”

“You do?”

And, foolishly, Martin repeats heartwholly; 

“I truly, truly do.”

*

His body doesn’t like what his muscle memory reminds it of; the first steps of the Archives hold the perfume of Death and they put a heavy weight in Martin’s belly. The last time he saw it, he was walking to his own ending… It feels like a whole year separates his adventures from the Institute’s own narrative. He wonders if, by any luck or malice, the Beholding can perhaps _smell_ on him how much he’s changed — and see his new patron and new mission. 

Despite his uneasiness, Martin goes through the door without incident. The air is very dry — his skin misses the harsh and wet spells of the sea against him, because it grew to ground him. Martin doesn’t like this building, never did really, but he dislikes it very much today. He couldn’t imagine himself working again here. Or spending any more time than mortally necessary. 

(He pushes deep down memories of sleeping in between two chairs, hidden underneath the artefacts’ messy nest, lost in himself and in the power blanketing him. He would often wake up to Jon’s voice in the morning, bringing him tea. Sasha would nap along with him, sharing a rest that only broken souls find comforting at two.)

His feet take him where he is needed. 

Peter's office is a homey as a cemetery to the living. The walls are bare and the air is cold. Nothing personal comes from the room, nor from its occupants. Did Martin ruin his whole Lonely facade with his past kindness and hardship? Maybe that made him even more attractive. Peter looks at him as soon as he opens the door, and he looks well. Glad, even, to see him. What were they? What will they become? 

"Martin," Peter greets him, warmth in his voice but hurt coloring his eyes. "I was growing worried without a word from you for so long." 

"I need you to give your statement to Jon." 

Peter looks unchanged, if not a tad bit confused. Was he expecting this to happen? 

"So protecting them wasn't enough? I need to spoon-feed the Archivist now? I don't like the Eye poking inside my head, it feels _dirty._" 

"Well—" Martin straightens, trying to look more serious, "Take one for the team."

Peter chuckles;

"And what is that supposed to mean?" 

"You… Help Jon with his— _feeding problem_, and I'll share with you what I discovered about the Extinction." 

"That doesn't seem of equal value at all, darling. I'll need more than that."

But Martin is already three steps ahead of him, embracing the Web's newly given self-confidence:

"The ritual will happen in two months. Nuclear Power Plants collapsing one after the other. Zaporizhia, Ōi, Yangjiang, Hanbit, Hanul, Bruce, Sizewell, Cattenom, Paluel, and Gravelines."

"I see… A nuclear apocalypse?" 

"Humanity’s own homemade disaster." 

Peter stands up. He comes very close to Martin, breathing him in, brushing some hair off his shoulders. He never was a man for useless touches. It feels like they will never see each other again. Peter whispers, cold air falling on Martin’s lips:

"I don't know if you're bluffing or simply trying to pull me into some kind of _web of lies,_ but I'm curious now. You've got yourself a deal."

Peter shakes his hand, offers him a sweet smile, and leaves the room. Martin has the sick feeling he's sent him to the slaughterhouse. In any case, everybody will need to make more sacrifices, and it's always more pleasant to give in than fighting against whatever’s coming your way.

He makes his way to the Institute’s artefact storage room. He knows Jon's instinct (or the equivalent he feels) will guide him towards it eventually. Plus, nobody walks around here anymore — and in the eventuality that Basira is the one to find it, she will gladly share her discovery with the rest of the class, which will lead to the same result, if not so intimate. 

Martin places the tape on top of a closed box labeled "Do Not Breathe", carefully folding the note he wrote for it. It reads: "For Jon. I missed you, too. Martin."

*

Peter finds the tape Martin left for Jon. He didn't lie to Martin, he was really about to go feed _himself_ to his darling Archivist, but the Lonely called to him. It directed him to the tape and the note. 

Peter only reads and listens to it to have something to trade with Jonathan; if he can save his origin story for a rainier day, he couldn’t be happier. Plus, he has the idea than the Archivist will forever prefer a Martin-flavored treat than a monster one. 

He burns the tape and letter, and goes meet his fate with the Beholding's youngling. 

*

Martin had google searched a list of the biggest nuclear power plants in the world still in activity to feed into Peter’s suspicions. Despite everyone’s efforts to assure you he doesn’t know much about anything, Martin _has_ learned traits of Peter Lukas. He isn’t, for instance, a lover of long-lasting events and frankly despises extensive research. The idea of the Extinction’s ritual being that obvious and easily explained would definitely play on his desire to put an end to _that_ story. And the man bit, and now his heart lays at Jon’s feet.

Martin suspects Peter has been kept too long from the sea and doesn’t feel half of himself on land. Which would explain his longer disappearances, and his constant inability to stand longer than ten minutes on the spot. The mist he travels in is as much a manifestation of the Lonely as it is of Peter’s will to avoid all forms of interaction. All that nonsense since Elias’ imprisonment should’ve never involved him, and Martin agrees on that point. The Institute should have been burned to the ground with Jane Prentiss. He thinks this is at that point that he lost any _real_ hope at a somewhat happy ending. 

But with most things decided at birth and bigger, angrier and more frightening powers at play, who knows? Happy endings could be a propaganda invented by a couple of Fears in the centuries of fairy tales to feed on young adults and silly lovers. 

London’s burning (or was it Paris?) under a very acidic polluted rain. Not literally, not yet anyway, but it still stings quite a bit on the remaining cuts on Martin’s face. His healing progress seems to speed up a little more with each new step towards the Web’s calling, maybe the Mother tries to appeal to the remains of his human nature to offer him a crumb of comfort.

Martin thought for so long he was a talentless lad, when in fact he can effortlessly develop dependent bonds with Fear monsters. The list only grows by the days. Not!Sasha, Helen, Peter, Simon, Annabelle, Jon… You could almost ask; _who would be next?_ But hopefully by then, there will be no more room for that kind of idea. He never planned on making it back alive, and despite his recent promise to Annabelle (and to himself) to not needlessly let himself go to waste, he knows he lost enough of his sense of self for it to count as a death. 

He is no more the man who was a friend to Sasha and Tim, who shyly pined after Jon, who loved a cruel mother. He grew, perhaps, into a monster; or he became something else entirely. Maybe fooling around with so many grandiose Fears left pieces of him scattered in every corner of every realm; the Web got the last bits of him, while his hunger for justice lays asleep in the Stranger’s shadows. He left his hopes with the Beholding (_with Jon_), and left his compassion in the sheets of the Lonely’s cold bed. He let himself live for others. 

The fact that Martin is only working for his own survival _means_ he’s become somebody else entirely. The essence of Martin Blackwood was self-sacrificial. His love for humanity was his fate to die for, and he did… Yes, he really did. 

Martin looks at the sky, but he doesn’t feel himself get lost in its infinite nuances of blue. He blinks at it and wish to see it blinks back at him, but to no avail. He looks down at the ground, waiting for hands to grab at his ankles and drag him into a well-deserved grave; but nothing comes. 

Maybe he did prevent the end of the world. One of many, at least. Or it was another lost cause, and so was he. He welcomed isolation and found excuses for his behavior. The future will probably tell him what’s true from false, if he listens carefully enough. 

His phone lets out a sharp chirp. It’s surprising, knowing the battery has been dead for days — weeks, even. But that device has been touched by the Beholding, so it knows where he is. An easy thing to forget, after all. 

Martin will dispose of it once he reads the message. It’s the last indulgence he'll allow himself.

“I won’t let you down, Martin. I’ll save you. You don’t belong to the Lonely or the Web or the Beholding.” Martin's cheeks warms a little at the understanding of the words hidden between the lines.

Jon wants him back. Irony, honey-coated, sweet irony.

“You deserve so much better, Martin. I won’t let you down.” Signed, _Jon, your friend._

Not the Archivist, not the Man. The Friend. The idea opens doors to silly dreams and desires in his head, but strangely leaves his heart dull and unconcerned. Does Martin want to be found? Does he want to be loved? _Could_ he become his old self, for the sake of one friend?

He looks at the phone screen until the pixelated letters are printed under his eyelids. He ends up throwing the thing into a river. The water swallows it and chases it away calmly. Nobody has ever truly wanted him, and he doesn’t think it’s really changed. Jon loves the idea of a Martin pure of heart and deserving of pity and saving.

All ideals are deceptions. If the idea of finding Martin can keep Jon on a healthier path of living, let it be. Martin gave himself up for him. He can push the lie a little further. He will be who Jon wants to love. He will be exemplary and good. He needs a distraction to fill his days, anyway. The Mother will have enough food for decades in such a predicament. It’ll be tragically beautiful. 

A spider appears at the edge of Martin’s right eye; another one at his left eye. His fingers find them and he understands that he is crying soft silk and softer little beasts. He wonders if someone could embroider clothes out of his tears. He would like to gift it to his lovers, and wrap it around them until they cannot breath.

He always had a thing for romantic poetry.


End file.
